


Substitute

by Damerel



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: AU, Hooker Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damerel/pseuds/Damerel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what does Gil Grissom do when he can't ride rollercoasters?</p><p>AU fic in which Nick isn't a CSI, and the relationships referenced between other characters reflect the early seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

He supposed that some day he'd be able to appreciate the irony of it all, but there was a time for everything and that time had not yet come.  Grissom had scrutinized the evidence for God, for karma, for destiny, and so far he had found it inconclusive.  There were times, though, when coincidences seemed so extreme that he was challenged to reconsider the evidence.

Coincidence hadn't accounted for the death of eighteen-year-old Caroline Secher; that had been Jack Woods and his greed and stupidity.  Coincidence had only intervened when it came to Woods' choice of venue.  It was coincidence's fault that on Grissom's night off he was sitting at a cheap veneered table in a bar where a large-screen television was showing a ball-game, hating every minute of it.  If it hadn't been for coincidence's clumsy hands all over the Secher murder, he would be home in his bed by now, asleep, instead of being strung out with exhaustion to the point where he no longer felt connected to the world around him.

Grissom didn't like dependence.  The only thing that had prevented him from putting an ignominious end to Warrick's career as a CSI had been Warrick's talent.  Catherine's need for Lindsey he understood, but he couldn't comprehend Sara's growing demands for his attention nor Hodges' apparent need to impress him with everything he did.

Four days ago he had gone to ride the rollercoaster, only to find it was no longer his freedom but just another crime scene.  Just another puzzle about how Caroline Secher had fallen to her death from the car when the safety bar was still firmly locked in place.  For the first time, Grissom had an inkling of what drove Warrick back to the tables even while he tried to stay away.  It was the knowledge that he couldn't play whenever he wanted to, because CSI's didn't earn that sort of money; unattainability drove addiction.  He had never before realized that he had come to depend on rollercoasters, needing the release they allowed him from the detail and the demands and the thinking, allowing him simply to be.

He'd tried meditating when he was younger, but all that had happened was that his sense of self had been drowned by his thoughts.  Until he'd discovered rollercoasters and his fascination with the rhythm and the thrill of the ride, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he had no way to switch himself off.  He hadn't realized how often he'd started to ride them, nor how important they had become.  Until four days ago, when his liberation had become just another tawdry fairground attraction.

Crippled by his inability to relax, Grissom tonight had left his apartment to drive aimlessly driven around the city.  The Tahoe had finally brought him here, and by the time he'd realized that the bar had a large screen and a crowd gathered watching the game that was showing, he didn't really care any more.  He'd taken a table at the quieter end of the bar, where it was possible to have a conversation.  For those who had somebody to talk to, that is.  Lacking that distraction, Grissom spent his time watching the people in the bar, cataloguing movements and motivation in the way he had done for as long as he could remember, certainly from before he had made the unwelcome discovery that being a CSI was at least as much about people as about objective evidence.

He watched the way the waitresses monitored their tables, continuously interpreting evidence so that their response to customers' requirements was practically anticipatory.  He saw the well-groomed couple who were sitting three tables away have a blazing row without once raising their voices or losing their polite masks and contemplated why appearances were so important to them.  He wondered what drove people to place vanity above survival, as the young guy who'd just walked into the bar was dressed for summer rather than the wet and wintry day that had turned into an equally wet and wintry night.

He watched the kid lean against the bar, watching the crowd in his turn.  It didn't take him long to spot whatever he was looking for, and he began to move through the press of bodies around the bar in a way that spoke of easy familiarity with people and physical closeness.  Grissom hated him, he hated sitting in this bar instead of relaxing at home, but most of all he hated the Secher case and what it had taken from him.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The waitress was at his table in almost instant response to his signal, bringing another beer.  He thanked her, adding a larger than usual tip in gratitude that she hadn't tried to talk but had simply brought him his beer and left him alone.  It should perhaps have disturbed him, the knowledge that this might be the only human interaction he had all day, but he found it reassuring.  No one would approach him unless he wanted it; he'd long ago learned that he didn't relate to people in the same way that everyone else did.  People and insects were alike in one way: you couldn't control either.  But cage the insects, and you knew where you were with them.  People couldn't be caged.  Encourage people, just slightly, and they became like Sara, always wanting attention, time, and something more than he was interested in giving.

The young guy he'd noticed earlier certainly didn't have any problem relating to his fellow men, if the body language Grissom was observing was anything to go by.  It was practically screaming that he wanted to be touched, that he was available.  It took Grissom a moment longer to realize that he was hustling, and then he sat back and watched yet another manifestation of the unchanging needs that drove people.  The kid had it down to a fine art: open, available, approachable, yet careful never to crowd.  His black jeans were worn and tight, accentuating the length of his thighs and clinging softly to the curves of his ass.  The denim jacket hid the torso from the back, but Grissom had gotten a glimpse of the thin t-shirt that looked just a little too tight as the kid had breezed into the bar.  The kid was subtle, as pros went, but then he'd have to be to get away with hustling in a bar on the good side of town.

And not only hustling, but successfully too.  The smile that opened the kid's face as he turned  took Grissom by surprise, and seemed to clinch a deal for him with a blond who looked a little older than Grissom, and whose body showed signs of too many nights in too many bars.  A brief conversation resulted in the kid making his way to the door, followed by the blond.  It was as the kid pulled the door open to make his way outside that he looked over at Grissom.  A brief, assessing look from dark brown eyes took Grissom in, a teasing eyebrow raised briefly, and then he was being crowded through the doorway by the blond.

Grissom took another swallow of the beer that he really wasn't enjoying as the door closed behind them.  Everyone had his or her own rollercoaster.  Maybe it would work for him, too.  Maybe sex would help him sleep.  He watched the crowd with a new interest for a while.  Male or female, he didn't mind: he was open-minded.  But even with his open-mindedness, there was nobody there who intrigued him enough for him to want to approach, not anybody who even seemed to raise a flicker of interest in his dick, and he knew that tonight he lacked the energy to go through the motions of social niceties when all he wanted was the physical act.

He thought about ordering something stronger to help him sleep, but he had to drive home at some point.  So he took occasional sips from the beer he had, which was warming gradually as the temperature inside the bar rose along with the noise level.  The door swung open now and then, letting the cooler night air in along with more people to fill the place with their warmth and laughter.  Although the crowd around the bar deepened, nobody approached him to ask if the seat opposite him was taken, and Grissom sipped slowly at his warm beer and watched the rituals of the crowd.

"Hey."

The kid was back.  It seemed he took Grissom's quizzical look as encouragement, because he pulled out the chair from the opposite side of the table, turned it around and straddled it, arms crossed on the chair back in a way that Grissom supposed was meant to push closer into Grissom's space but which only emphasized the slimness of his wrists where they emerged from beneath dark denim.  His hands were large, but Gil's immediate impression of a slightly gangling colt was lost as soon as the kid moved slightly on the chair, drawing Gil's attention to where denim jeans clung damply to his thighs, falling open on either side of the seat.  The kid knew just what he was doing; he'd even kept the chair far enough away from the table to ensure Gil got a good look at what was on offer.  And Gil had to admit that what was on offer was beautiful: the kid's dark hair was short, with moisture glistening in it, and his cheeks were creased as an irresistible smile lit his face.  The worn black jeans had darker patches on the knees, and Grissom was hit by a sudden picture of the kid on his knees in the wet car park, and the blond sucking in his stomach so he could enjoy the sight of the kid's lips wrapped around his dick.

"It's wet out there."  It was said with a slight drawl - Texan, Grissom thought, as he tried to work out where the hell that image had come from.  The voice also held an undertone of smugness, probably because he'd seen Grissom looking.  The kid leaned forward slightly and Gil could practically taste the pheromones the boy was putting out.  "I'm Nick."

And I'm CSI and you're busted.  But there was no way Grissom could face the paperwork that would entail.  Not tonight.  And not this kid.

"I ride rollercoasters," he said.  "Normally."

Nick's head went back slightly, his dark eyes uncertain as they studied him carefully.

"And tonight?"

"No rollercoasters."  His voice was controlled, belying the sudden flutter in his stomach that he only usually felt as he settled into the seat and the safety bar was snapped into place.

"You want to get me a beer, man?"

The boy - Nick - was cocky.  Sure of his mark, except for that caution in his eyes.

He called the waitress over again and Nick ordered an expensive imported beer, while Grissom finally gave up on the idea of watching yet another beer turn warm and ordered himself a single malt.  Grissom ignored the waitress's disapproving stare at Nick and the chilly extension of that opinion to him.  It was only a matter of time before Nick got bounced from the bar; hustling so openly in Vegas wasn't particularly smart.  But then, hustling wasn't that smart a way to earn a living.  And Grissom sitting there with a rent boy wasn't that smart either, but buying the kid a beer wasn't a crime.

As Nick's lips wrapped around the long neck of the bottle, smart didn't seem the most important thing any more.  Warmth from his first sip of scotch paralyzed Grissom until he couldn't tear his eyes away from Nick's throat, where muscles moved smoothly as he swallowed.  With a hand that almost trembled from the effort, he forced the glass back to his lips and gulped at the rest of the scotch, but it only brought more images: Nick's lips stretched around hard flesh rather than a bottle, Nick's cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and blunt scientist's fingers spanning the clean line of his jaw to hold him in place.

He forced his eyes away, forced himself to look for the waitress for another drink to stop what he knew was lunacy, but she was no longer paying attention to his suddenly unwelcome presence.  So instead he watched Nick.  As Nick's lips finally released the top of the bottle with a wet sound to smile at him, the flutter in Grissom's stomach changed to the gloriously heady swoop and thrill of the rollercoaster, of letting go, of flying free.

"I changed my mind."

Resignation and a touch of wariness filled Nick's face as he got to his feet.

"I don't want to get you a beer," Grissom said.  "I want to get out of here."

The relief that blossomed in response to his statement made him wonder how many habits the kid had that needed feeding so that one trick more or less a night made such a difference.  And for an instant he thought he was insane, risking it all for something that was nothing, but then Nick smiled at him in the way that lit up his whole face and he knew it didn't really matter.  He could sit here the rest of the night, then go home to his apartment and stare at the walls until it was time to go to work.  Or he could go with this boy Nick and get some relief without having to talk, without having to try to make a connection, and then maybe it would all stop and he could sleep.

When he got to his feet he found he was a little stiff from the amount of time he'd been sitting there.  Picking up his jacket from the back of his chair, he slipped it on and let Nick lead the way out of the bar.  He could feel the stares on his back, the same looks that the blond guy had gotten earlier, and he knew he was being stupid.  Reckless.  Not a word that had ever been associated with Gil Grissom, and not one he was comfortable with.  But as he watched Nick's loose-limbed stride and the way the dark denim clung to him, it became him.

This was way beyond reckless, but at least if the kid had been trick-rolling, he'd never have come back into the same bar.  Not unless he was terminally stupid.  And maybe it was his dick talking, but Grissom didn't think Nick was stupid.

Nick had moved from the bright yellow light out front of the bar into the relative dimness of the alleyway that ran down the side, seemingly unaware of the rain that was falling.  He waited for Grissom, and as Grissom reached him, he moved against him, body warm where it plastered against Grissom's front in the damp chill.

"You want to go somewhere?"  The soft accent in his ear melted him until liquid heat began to solidify in his cock.  Or maybe it wasn't the voice causing the reaction but the hand that was suddenly moulded against his pants.  Nick's breath smelled of beer and mint, as though he'd freshened his breath after the blond, and somehow the reminder of what Nick had been doing only moments before didn't repel Grissom as it should have, but made him harder, needing to claim this boy who was so willing to give it up to anyone.

"You can do it here if you want.  Anything you want."

Grissom's cock was hot and the pressure of Nick's hand had him thrusting eagerly against the willing palm that cupped him.  The smugness didn't matter any more, he could only hear the soft treacle of the accent as it flowed down deep inside him, promising him warmth and release and cessation.

He forced himself to take a step back.  "How much do you...?"  And he couldn't believe that he was stuck for words, nor that he was having difficulty naming the act that he was all too eager to engage in.  Or perhaps it was because Nick had moved after him and his hand had found him again, a promising pressure against his all too eager dick.

Nick's smile was brighter than the lights outside the bar.  "Depends what you want."

Then the world tilted as Nick sank to his knees and rubbed his face into Grissom's crotch.

"My car," he got out stupidly, hands blindly reaching for Nick's head to hold him in place, but defeated by the shortness of the hair.

"So that's the where..."  Nick looked up at him for an instant, before nuzzling his cock through his pants.

Grissom was lost, looking down at this beautiful boy on his knees in the wet in front of him, willing to do anything he asked.

Nicky replaced his mouth with his hand and looked up at Grissom as he moved it gently against the hardness that was increasingly pressing against Grissom's pants.  "You want me to suck you?" he offered in that smooth Texan accent, seemingly realizing he wasn't going to get a coherent answer.

"Want to fuck your mouth."  And since when did Grissom Grissom get reduced to this quivering heap of need who couldn't speak, couldn't think of anything except sliding his cock deep inside this boy's willing mouth.

Seemed the boy realized that Grissom wasn't capable of doing anything more because it was he who got to his feet and led Grissom across the car park till Grissom managed to stop him at the dark outline of the Tahoe, where he stood quietly and let Grissom fish out the keys from his pocket and unlock the car.  Grissom looked at him one more time, and half-thought - half-hoped - the boy would watch him get into the car and then would leave.  Instead, he had time only to turn on the engine to let the heaters start their work before Nick slid into the passenger side and, as he fumbled out his wallet and passed over the miserably small amount Nick asked for, he closed his mind to what he was doing and all the reasons why this was such a bad, such an appallingly bad, idea.  All he could thing of was the boy's long-limbed body, the way in which his hand rested warmly on Grissom's thigh even while he swiftly tucked the notes away, and the smooth drawl in his ear suggesting he ease the seat back.  And then Nick was leaning over, a finger teasing for an unbearable instant up and down the zipper of his pants before he slowly pulled down the zip and that large warm hand worked its way inside.

He knew he made a noise then, but it had been too long, too many months since anyone had touched him, and the windows were tinted anyway and nobody would know that he was groaning at the boy's expert hand wrapping around his cock.  His eyes closed as he sank into the delicious rhythm until it faltered, and he looked to see the dark head lowering and felt delicious hotness surrounding him and the long fingers moving to stroke his balls with a light, magic touch.  It took an instant longer for him to realize the kid had used his mouth to put a condom on him; his first instant of instinctive anger that he was deprived of the wetness, of seeing his cock glistening from the boy's mouth, drained away, leaving him cold and wondering just how he could have been so stupid as not even to check.

All thought left him then as the mouth moved cleverly over him and he grasped the dark hair, not able to find enough to hold on to but pushing Nick's head down on him.  Nick went willingly, taking Grissom deeper, his head moving as much as Grissom would let him, his mouth hot and welcoming each time Grissom thrust up into him, and Grissom could feel it happening, feel the desperation build and the tormenting nearness of release, and he pushed Nick all the way down on him and held him there as his body shuddered and he flew free.

Nick twisting away from his loosened grasp and sitting up, looking flushed and disheveled in the interior light of the truck, rudely recalled him to the present,.  He gestured at the condom on Grissom's dick.

"You want me to get that?"

"No."

The instincts that had been AWOL all evening were suddenly back, and Grissom wanted nothing more than to get away from here and to eradicate all evidence of what had just happened.

Nick was silent, and the only sound was that of the engine running and Grissom's breathing, still too fast and too loud.  Removing the condom, Grissom tied the top of it with hands that shook slightly.  His face blank, Nick produced a small plastic bag from the pocket of his jacket, and Grissom refused to consider that it reminded him of an evidence bag but simply took it and wrapped the condom to take it safely home.  He placed the bag in the moulded plastic pocket of the car's door and self-consciously readjusted his clothes, all the time willing his breathing to return to normal and the kid to leave.

The door opened, allowing cold rain to blow into the warm interior.  Nick slid out of the car and glanced back.  Grissom felt as though he was expected to say something, but said nothing.

Nick smiled, but in a different way from earlier.  "Sure, man," he said, and shut the door behind him.

Grissom sat an instant longer, then pulled his seat forward, flicked on the lights and with a yawn put the car into drive.  As he pulled out of the car park in the direction of his apartment, he had a brief glimpse in his mirror of a dark figure in jacket and jeans walking slowly across the car park towards the bar.

He was too tired even to take a shower when he reached home, fumbling with the front door key and dropping it before managing to lock the door from the inside.  His clothes lay where he dropped them, but at least he managed to flush the condom and set his alarm clock before he rolled into bed, weary beyond belief.  Sleep claimed him almost instantly and he slept deeply, his only dreams those of flying on rollercoasters.

 

 


End file.
